


Entrance

by Auntvodkacat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Secret Crush, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:04:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntvodkacat/pseuds/Auntvodkacat
Summary: Their Herald is interesting, to say the least.





	Entrance

She’s the slippery sort, their Herald. Accustomed to her own smallness both in form and general relevance, she often disappears in an instant. But, it is not unnoticed. Not anymore.

The Seeker’s quivering shadow falls across the pages in his lap. Solas knows she is there, but he takes his time meeting the stare which sears into his exposed skull.

“Have you seen her?” She demands. It is more of an accusation than a question, he’s learned that much about Lady Pentaghast by now.

“Do you assume we are in collusion, Seeker?” Solas asks, still keeping his eyes focused on the text before him. Another gust of wind rips through the valley, bending the trees and flipping the pages a few hundred ahead of where he’d been. The apostate sighs softly before trying to find his lost place again.

“You are the only one she talks to,” The Seeker hisses through her teeth.

“We have only spoken twice since the Breach was contained,” Solas corrects her. “And we were not on good terms the last time we encountered one another. I assure you, if your Herald has decided to run off somewhere, I would be last to know of it.”

Cassandra looks as though she’s about to spit something back at him, but she stops herself. She lets a bit of the steam out in a small huff of air, and she manages to sound close civil when she says, “Regardless, would you please help us search Solas? I know neither she or I are friends to you, but surely you must understand what is at stake.”

Solas does look at her then, and rather than the hard lines of her brow, he’s drawn to the circles under her eyes. They are all working toward the same goal, for the moment at least. Wild circumstance or no, without the mark they are all doomed.

“Alright, I will try,” Solas concedes.

He’s observed the Herald long enough now to know her usual hiding places. She’s often drawn to the roof tops, watching all that happens below with a discerning eye. When she isn’t peering down from stoops, he’s seen her crouched behind the apothecary’s hut or, sometimes, even up in the rafters of the Chantry. Solas checks all of her hideouts with no luck.

The Dalish are fond of their trees, Solas thinks. Perhaps she has run off to woods. If so, hopefully not far. He has no desire to freeze to death this afternoon.

Murmuring a spell to keep his toes warm, Solas sets out into the snow outside. The soldiers’ drills have made nearly al footprints he could follow indiscernible, but he is eventually able to find some tracks. Next to his own feet, the shallow imprints in the snow are miniscule. Their path is meandering; these are not the steps someone on the run. If she truly were trying to escape anyway, the Herald does not strike him as one thoughtless enough to leave tracks.

He finds her soon enough. She stands with preternatural stillness at the base of an evergreen, hand spread across the ice encrusted trunk. Her back is to him, and he finds himself drawn to the way the setting sun plays across the choppy ends of her brown hair.

It had been much longer before-- Solas remembers that much. While laboring over the mark, he’d had a subconscious urge to run his fingers through those loose waves. This had been a passing thought, however, and one he’d not acted on. He could not say the same for the bandit who had roughly grasped a fistful of it on their last excursion to the Hinterlands. After that understandably traumatic experience, she’d been quick to lop off most of it.

Solas allows a twig to snap under him as he takes one more step forward. The Herald does not jump, but rather steadily levels her gaze at his. For someone so antisocial, she has a unyielding demeanor. He’d have thought he would grow accustomed to her stare by now, but her eyes ensnare him every time.

Solas would not call them pretty, not in the traditional sense. That word draws to mind a gentle expression and unthreatening warmth. Hers are beautiful like thunderstorm, like a wildfire in the blistering summer. The raw, untamed power of nature itself peeks out through this tiny figure. It is unsettling, unexpected, and alarmingly enthralling.

“Evening,” she says, and she turns her attention immediately back to the tree afterward.

“Lady Pentaghast is looking for you,” he curtly says.

“I know,” she answers with a shrug. The Herald slowly circles the tree, her fingers sliding gently over its rough surface. “I just don’t care.”

Solas manages to withhold an aggravated sigh. “You do realize avoiding her won’t change anything? You are merely making the inevitable worse for yourself, and the rest of us.”

“Perhaps,” she admits. “A little defiance might do her some good, though. She’s much too used to people falling in line. That’s not how the world works.”

“At the moment,” Solas reminds her, “The world is falling apart, and you possess the only means of righting that, for better or worse.”

Her only reply is an annoyed scoff. She wanders to another tree, even further away from Cassandra, the Chantry, and Haven. Not from the Breach, however.

Solas follows, against his better judgement.  
“This place must be beautiful in the Spring,” she says.

Solas cannot say that he understands her line of thought, but slowly he replies, “I doubt it is much different. We are in the mountains, after all.”

The Herald stalls when she reaches the edge of the frozen lake. The ice reflects the green of the crumbling sky, but she doesn’t seem to notice either. Solas follows her gaze to the old pier by the soldiers’ camp.

There are two figures sitting there, awkward legs dangling over the edge, but not as carelessly as they might. It’s bizarre, really, the sight of these two teenagers set against the looming apocalypse. Is it denial, desperation, or hope that drives them?.

“Do you wonder what it’s like?” Her voice is like a whisper against the howling of the wind and the distant clanging of metal on metal.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and he makes the mistake of returning his gaze back to her.

She’s watching him, or inspecting really. It takes him a second to remember that he should be breathing.

“To wake up and not question why you are where you are, to be able to just talk to people, to live and die without any of it really mattering? It seems so easy for them, doesn’t it? But it’s just impossible, somehow.”

For once, he finds himself without anything to say. No quips, no remarks, no biting questions. Solas just stares, not slack-jawed at least, but nearly, and she smiles. She should do that more often.

“I thought so,” she breathes.

Solas’ senses return to him after a drawn out moment of silence. “We ah, really must assuage Cassandra’s concerns.”

“Before she threatens to have all of Haven executed for treason?” she asks, her soft expression twisting into a light smirk.

“Preferably,” he answers in kind.

She sweeps by him without another word. What is this... creature? She is half-formed, a partial being, just like the rest of the pale shadows that haunt this splintered world. And yet, she seems so different, in a way that is achingly familiar.

Solas follows her silently through the crowds of soldiers. At a glance, little sets her apart from the servants that scuttle about the forge and stable. The Herald has a habit of concealing her mark beneath the thickly lined cloak she wears at all times.

Cassandra is actually less infuriated than he’d imagined she’d be. Perhaps she’s glad that, at least, the Herald has only been missing a few hours this time rather than a full day. The crisis having been averted, Solas returns to his corner to mull over the myriad of thoughts racing through his head.

The situation does not improve over the course of the next few days.

They embark out into the Hinterlands once again. Solas wonders why they do not move their base of operations here, considering how much time they spend trekking back and forth through these woods.

This morning has been consumed in a noble task, at least: aiding the refugees. They hunt for blankets and ram’s meat while doing their best to clear the roads of the still warring mages and templars. It’s interesting to witness the Herald, who can only be scarcely taller than five foot, sling a ram over her shoulders and carry it back to the Cross Roads.

As she cuts up the beast by the hunter’s fire, she explains at length how the liver can be used to make a canteen, the various medicinal purposes the ground up bones could serve, how the tongue and brains could go well in a stew, and every other miscellaneous purpose every sinew is capable of. Solas learns a number of things himself as he listens to her go on. In just one of these animals there’s enough food to feed fifty for a week.

At the end of it all, the Herald’s hands, clothes, and face are all bathed in blood. There’s even clumps of it stuck in the ends of her hair. The Seeker has never struck him as being particularly squeamish, but even she wrinkles her nose at the sight.

“You cannot meet with Enchanter Fiona in such a state,” Cassandra stiffly sums up.

“I don’t suppose you have a hot bath ready, do you?” The Herald quips. She raises her thumb to her lips, and her tongue darts out to catch a streak of running red.

“Perhaps we can find a stream…” Cassandra muses.

“There’s water right here,” the Dalish elf says, gesturing to the pond in the middle of the village.

“The Herald of Andraste is not going to strip naked in front of all of these people,” Cassandra hisses anxiously, as if she fears their marked companion will throw her shirt off any second.

“Hold on to your skirts, Sister,” she jeers. “I never said I was going to be naked. I’d keep my pants on, at least.”

They do end up settling on a stream nearby, for the sake of argument. Solas does find himself rather thankful for the chance to rinse off, for he’s gotten his fair share of wounds and spatter as well. This meeting in RedCliff does not bode well-- there’s just too many unanswered questions, and not enough time to investigate.

Just as Cassandra begins working out turns in an attempt to protect what little modesty her savior and herself have left, the Herald kicks off her boots, tosses down her shirt, and wades into the deepest portion of the stream without a care.

Considering the fact that Solas, and presumably Varric as well, has seen his fair share of naked women in his day, this does not phase the rest of the party as much as it does the Seeker. In reality, with her breast band and leggings still on, little more than her shoulder and a bit of mid-drift are exposed at all. Lady Pentaghast’s expression does elicit a hearty chuckle from the dwarf, however.

“Did you happen to pack any spare changes of clothes, Herald?” Cassandra calls over her shoulder, doing her best to avert her gaze.

“I think there’s a shirt in my bag,” the Dalish elf answers, wringing ruddy water out of her hair once again. She probably won’t have much luck without soap, but desperate times, desperate measures.

Solas settles underneath a tree a few feet from the water, sketchbook in hand. He does briefly consider rinsing off himself, but decides against it. It isn’t shame so much as suspicion that gives him pause.

It’s another thing that mystifying him about this girl. She doesn’t seem to trust Cassandra or Varric any more than he does, but she doesn’t seem bothered by being so vulnerable. This behavior has only two possible explanations: either she’s a fool, or she simply doesn’t care whether they attack or not.

He turns his attention back onto his drawings. Solas has been neglecting them lately, given the course of recent events. It’s mostly full of sketches and notes on various plants, animals, and artifacts he’s found in his journeys over the last year. This is actually one of three books he’s compiled, for what purpose he’s not certain. It isn’t as though they serve any purpose in his plans.

Solas glances around in hopes of finding some inspiration. He spots a dragonfly resting on a tree trunk across from him, electric blue with silken wings. Solas begins scratching away at the paper with his piece of charcoal. He glances back at his subject about three times a second, as any artist aiming for accuracy should, and he soon finds the insect has moved.

It takes him a moment to find where it had flown off to, but not long.

Bright blue rests upon a toned, amber bicep. The Herald is very still, eyes locked upon the tiny creature just as his had been. Solas finds his mind wander, though, as he takes in the firm musculature of her shoulders. She has such a petite frame, but is certainly no weakling. The huntress has probably been an archer most of her life, so this really shouldn’t come as a surprise.

The dragonfly takes off again, and she looks up. Solas quickly snaps his face back to the page in front of him once more, but he knows when he’s been caught. Apparently, she isn’t the only one who notices the exchange.

“Watch it Chuckles,” the dwarf nonchalantly mentions. “Your ears are turning red.”

Solas doesn’t say anything, and, thankfully, the Herald refrains as well.

After the confusing meeting with the rebel mages later that day, the party returns to Haven. They have more questions than answers at this point, perhaps more than they’d had to begin with, but Solas at least has something to unravel in his mind for the next few days. Could time travel truly be possible? What a dangerous gift, one that could tempt a man to rip the world asunder.

He plots out his thoughts on paper, in coded elvhen, to be safe. It’s the same cipher they’d used back then, one not even Elvhenan’s best and brightest could crack. Solas doubts any of the Inquisition’s wandering eyes could manage it.

Despite this, Solas can’t help the way he defensively curls over his work when someone approaches him.

“Solas?” Her voice is lilting, and yet demanding as well.

“Yes?” He answers, relaxing somewhat.

“May I ask you about something? I figured you might know,” the Herald requests, wringing her hands together as she speaks. Solas’ trepidation returns in full force; the last time she’d come at him with a question, it hadn’t ended very well.

“What would you like to know?” Solas carefully replies.

“You said you’ve studied the Fade,” she recalls. “What can you tell me about demons?”

“A great deal,” he admits, gently closing his notes once more. “Is there anything in particular I can assist you with?”

There’s quite a few things on her mind, it turns out. She asks about the various different kinds of spirits and demons, which leads to discussion of their natures, and then on to whether or not peace could be achieved between demons and man. Every answer he gives, rather than satisfying the Herald, seems to just raise twenty more. They’ve been chattering on for a good half hour before he even realizes it.

Soon enough, however, there are calls for the Herald ringing throughout the camp once again.

Her face twists in irritation-- the way her small, sloping nose screws is rather pleasant. She nervously looks down at her hands again, the strange creature. How can someone be so unyielding and unsure simultaneously?

“I know you don’t like me very much,” she murmurs. “But, thank you for talking to me, anyway.”

Solas finds himself speechless again. Looking back on these last few days altogether… He’s made an ass of himself again, hasn’t he?

It had been a week ago, their argument. Had it been an argument even? He’s not entirely certain. She’d asked him about the ancient elvhen, and he’d assumed she meant to give him yet another Dalish lecture on the topic. Jumping on the defensive before any actual threat had been level against him, as usual.

“It is no issue, in fact,” Solas sighs, “I believe I may owe you an apology. I behaved, untowardly before.”

“Oh,” she says, looking at him owlishly. “Um, thank you. I probably could’ve handled that better too. I’m just, sort of used to being shot down, I guess.”

“I am as well,” Solas admits before he can stop himself.

A heavy silence falls between them, but his mind is abuzz and screaming.

“I, would enjoy talking again sometime, if that’s not a problem,” she proposes, sparing a glance behind her as the hurried voices start calling louder.

Her throat quivers beautifully as she turns. It’s terrifying; what is wrong with him?

It all settles into place then, and he quite suddenly feels rather embarrassed of himself. Solas is over five thousand years old, and here he is acting like a flustered adolescent. She’s very attractive, intensely so, and he’s been looking for any kind of faults he could find in her. How ridiculous-- must he really antagonize someone he’s already damned to an early grave twice over?

That being said, he absolutely cannot encourage any kind of relationship with her, even in friendship. It would only bring about complications.

Even though this thought rings true in his mind, though he has determined to keep her at a distance, the sadistic voice in his mind says, “Yes, I would like that, Herald,”

Before he can somehow divert or warp what he’s said, she smiles again.

“Morinthe,” she whispers, like a treasured secret. “My name is Morinthe.”

“Morinthe,” he repeats, letting it gently roll over his own tongue. Interesting. Solas has never heard that name before-- it’s not elvhen, not traditionally anyway. He shakes his head, as if that could free him from himself. “Until later, then.”

“Goodbye,” she answers in kind. Morinthe hesitantly turns away, as if going to face her execution.

This is going to take some deliberation, that much he can tell. Hopefully, she will not attempt to seek him out too often. This will pass, Solas is certain of that much. The people of this world are depressingly predictable, after all.

Solas watches her as she walks away, more attentively than he’d like to admit.


End file.
